Since the first Adam who beheld the nightAnd the day and the shape of his own hand,Men have made up stories and have fixedIn stone, in metal, or on parchmentWhatever the world includes or dreams create.Here is the fruit of their labor: the Library.They say the wealth of volumes it containsOutnumbers the stars or the grainsOf sand in the desert. The manWho tried to read them all would loseHis mind and the use of his reckless eyes.Here the great memory of the centuriesThat were, the swords and the heroes,The concise symbols of algebra,The knowledge that fathoms the planetsWhich govern destiny, the powersOf herbs and talismanic carvings,The verse in which love's caress endures,The science that deciphers the solitaryLabyrinth of God, theology,Alchemy which seeks to turn clay into goldAnd all the symbols of idolatry.The faithless say that if it were to burn,History would burn with it. They are wrong.Unceasing human work gave birth to thisInfinity of books. If of them allNot even one remained, man would againBeget each page and every line,Each work and every love of Hercules,And every teaching of every manuscript.In the first century of the Muslim era,I, that Omar who subdued the PersiansAnd who imposes Islam on the Earth,Order my soldiers to destroyBy fire the abundant Library,Which will not perish...